LETTER IV.
FIRST GRIEF AND FIRST JOURNEY.
My fourteenth birthday had scarce added itself like a pearl to the necklace of life, when the shadow of a great grief came upon me. The aged, idolized friend, who had grown dearer to my heart every year, heard the love-call and went home. She had numbered four score and eight, and strength failed as her journey drew near its close. She seldom left her couch, and memory, like a garment long used, seemed worn thin, here and there, in spots. Names, localities, and passing events, gradually faded; but the heart's record grew bright, as the angels drawing nearer breathed upon it.
I could not understand why any should say that patience was tried by the mind's brokenness. To me it was a fresh delight to tell her the same thing many times, if she required it. Sometimes, when restlessness oppressed her, she called me to come within her curtains, and sing the simple melodies that she had early taught me. This I did in low, soothing tones, joining my cheek to hers. Then she was comforted and slept,
